


Even the Prettiest Rose Has its Thorns

by ellyiggy



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Blood, Emotional Hurt, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, Graphic Description, Heavy Angst, Historical, Historical Hetalia, Humiliation, Implied SpUk, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mind Manipulation, Past Child Abuse, Rape, ScotEng, Scotland is his own warning, Sibling Incest, Trauma, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 05:59:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14254482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellyiggy/pseuds/ellyiggy
Summary: England had just returned home proudly after stealing a cargo full of jewels and gold from a Spanish fleet. Oh, how he craved to destroy his foes' ships, to seek and abduct their concealed gold and jewellery, but all of this was overcome by the act of submitting and humiliating Spain.Whenever Scotland had it in his power to inflict pain on the younger nation, he always proceeded to fulfil  his supremacy without concern. But now was the time for England to inflict pain, and he did it so meticulously, so extremely similarly to Scotland's way that the redhead could not help but feel both amused and remarkably intrigued by his youngest brother’s change of attitude."Exploring new lands, having another body squirming under yours…you feel like having the whole world in your hands, don’t you agree? But you, you are also empty, England. You have nothing to fall back to. Your pride makes you brittle and your strength is hollow. You will break." Scotland leaned forward, lips pulled back, baring his teeth.“But when you’ll fall, I'll be there…to fix your mess and remind you who made you what you are.”





	Even the Prettiest Rose Has its Thorns

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for _graphic_ description of rape ( **Scotland x England** ) and implied non-con Elements of **England x Spain**.

Setting foot in his private chambers of the castle, England could make out the bright green eyes very similar to his own illuminated by the dim glow of his brother's lit cigar. He entered the room, standing tall with good posture, his shoulders back.

“What are you doing here, Alba?” he asked irritated, yanking the oaken door closed behind him. Scotland looked up from the paper he'd been flicking through to blow out a lungful of tobacco, emitting smoke from his nostrils. The opaque cloud surrounded the cigar, then twisted and revolved around itself, but Scotland's gaze was trained on his younger brother standing before him, with his arms crossed.

“I just wanted to see my docile little brother at his Majesty’s service”. England cautiously took off his luxurious red coat; he was often described as a flamboyant dresser, always adorned with gold and ornaments. His waistcoat and breeches were made of a rich crimson velvet, while an expensive satin and leather belt diagonally decorated the front of his coat and a sash was tied around his waist.

England sank into the nearest comfortable wooden chair apparently unaffected by the older nation’s voice, soaked with irony. Scotland gazed down at the content of the paper he had been reading, “I heard from Wales that ye got a rather good loot in your latest raiding expedition.”

A glass was then filled with alcohol and the Empire drank while admiring the mesmerizing splendour of the furniture of his large room, not paying any mind at the other’s presence. He sighed as if suddenly remembering something quite relevant, and reluctantly offered to pour a glass for his guest, more out of civil good manners than anything. The other accepted politely and swallowed the savoury liquid in two single sips. 

“Since you are in a so munificent mood, I wonder whether it is your habit to offer to drink to your men, too.” He passed the tongue on his lower lip in order to savour each drop, “Tell me, brother, do you usually drink with that Spanish fellow, too?” England’s eyes narrowed in a thin line as he watched his brother tentatively; how dared he think he would be on such good terms and charitable with his enemy? Spain was a mere rival, someone to defy and claim as his own. He had just returned home proudly after stealing a cargo full of jewels and gold from a Spanish fleet: the presence of Spain was quite annoying, but he enjoyed attacking him with his ships and fighting with swords, only the two of them. He longed to make Spain his prisoner and possess him during those long nights sailing on the water. England's people had finally learnt the rules of the game among nations; they were, at last, in the position to uncover the skills of plundering and conquering new lands; thus kindling a stronger feeling of patriotism and a consequent overwhelming pride in the growing Empire country. He craved to destroy his foes' ships, to seek and abduct their concealed gold and jewellery, but all of this was overcome by the act of submitting and humiliating Spain. 

Scenes of conquests and power flowed through the pirate’s head when suddenly he looked up, head raised before the sumptuous mirror on the wall in front of him, and the glass reflected the glee in his eyes. An abrupt realisation struck him: they hid the same light as Scotland’s when the older gazed down at him, the same shade, the same lust for sadistic pleasure. England behaved way too similarly to the northern nation in those moments of folly at sea, their green irises starved for the same famished yearning. He resembled him terribly.

 _No_. England shook his head angrily, teeth grinding, he was not him, he would never be him. The fingers of his right hand broadened his grip on the glass he was holding, clutching it so tightly as if willing to shatter it, reducing it in a myriad of glassy pieces. After calmly finishing his drink, Scotland admired haughtily the whole scene happening in front of him, greedily capturing every expression carved into England’s skin.

“I would call your anger pathetic, if I didn’t have a little respect for you, for the time being” he stated monotonously. 

England looked as if he had forgotten to be in company, but was withdrawn from his thoughts as soon as he heard the other speaking. “Respect?” He asked in disbelief, remembering what the redhead had said. He watched Scotland’s expressionless face relax, somehow, in a knowing smile that had very little warmth. 

"I just reckon you are no longer as weak as you were when you were a wee, whining bairn," he intoned instead, eyes steady, "After all, I guess you did learn something from my lessons; I’m touched. Because that's about all you're worth, brother." Hearing those words the bold empire flew into a murderous rage, instinctively closed his eyes shut, and inhaled deeply. Old memories he had tried so hard to suppress re-emerged all at once, thus breathing life into the blackness of his closed eyelids. He saw a younger version of himself, weaker, smaller, and utterly terrified at his brother’s mercy.

“I was weak _because_ of you” he spat like venom, “Say, Alba, did it fill you with triumphant pleasure to make me bleed?" Whenever Scotland had it in his power to inflict pain on the smaller nation, he always proceeded to fulfil his supremacy without concern. But now was the time for England to inflict pain, and he did it so meticulously, so extremely similarly to the Scot’s way that the redhead could not help but feel both amused and remarkably intrigued by his youngest brother’s change of attitude, obscured, distorted, and left to explore.

Slowly, Scotland leaned towards the younger man with a gleam in his eye. He smirked, grabbing the pirate’s wrist without any warning, making the blond tense nervously at the touch, a sign of an ingrained reaction. “Exploring new lands, having another body squirming under yours…you feel like having the whole world in your hands, don’t you agree? But you, you are also empty, England. You have nothing to fall back to. Your pride makes you brittle and your strength is hollow. You will break." He leaned forward, lips pulled back, baring his teeth.  
“But when you’ll fall, I'll be there…to fix your mess and remind you who made you what you are.”

Sure enough, out of all of them, Scotland was the strongest. It may be true that English names had marked Navigation marks and Landmarks, but the force and the shrewdness behind them had always been Scottish. In a world where brute force mattered less and less, Scotland didn't have a chance to adapt quickly enough and make the Islands prosper - it had to be the English pride, his way of demanding and believing, his royalty, unique politics and perseveration. Nevertheless, the empire may have crumbled, but the mastermind behind it would not.

England gave a half-shrug and a grin as if conveying a secret knowledge, “Oh, really? And what would you exactly know about being a powerful empire?” He ran a hand through his fair hair, speaking in a patronizing way, “Your land is just a blend of barbaric folk.”  
As soon as he formulated those words, England felt his face being grabbed and the redhead’s claws digging into his chin; lifting it up, turning it to observe him closely, as if searching for something; his free hand, however, had slipped through the gaps in England's official attire.

“Remember, _Sasainn_ …” started Scotland, speaking softly, with a particular emphasis on his name. Their faces were close, maybe too close, and the Scot’s breath smelled of alcohol. He had a mischievous smile on his lips. He slightly raised his voice, the burning shady lust in his eyes was unmistakable now, and albeit he gave out an angry attitude, he didn't look sincerely angry at all. “As much as you obstinately pretend to deny it, I will always know you better than anyone else.”

Though when he looked up to meet the blond's eyes, all he saw was them darkening further with a fresh bout of pure rage. His lips thin into a single line as he tipped his head forward, his hair shielding his face.  
Scotland smirked, drew the other’s face closer to his own with his fingers and then proceeded to smash his lips hard against England's instantly. England's growing enraged and entertaining temper had lit him up, stirring wondrous things inside of him. His whole body tingled like bursts of electricity were running through him as a result of the look in those angry green eyes.

England began to fight him the moment he felt his mouth on his own but the most he could do was slightly twist his body left and right in a vain wiggling attempt to dodge, his wrists were trapped in a death hold by Scotland’s now free hand, lips firmly pressed against his. The elder’s tongue darted in his mouth, forcing its way in, mapping and tasting every part, hence compelling his own to join the dance. 

England cringed at the bitter taste of tobacco in his mouth and struggled against him, trying his best not to surrender to the pressure, concentrating on his rage, the fury he was feeling deep within. As response, he bit down hard on the foreign tongue in his mouth, but nonetheless, Scotland held him firmly, relentlessly. 

A growl escaped him as he felt the tongue and mouth being removed. England wiped his mouth on the hem of his long sleeve; his cheeks were now flushed with anger, hands curled into fists and his body beginning to shake. “How dare you…” he muttered indignantly, keeping his chin jut. He stood up abruptly, tried to lurch towards the door, refusing to stay in his brother’s presence, but Scotland's figure was blocking his way, therefore he just gave him his most intimidating and ferocious glare, hoping he'd back down.

He didn’t.

On the contrary, Scotland approached his younger sibling and wrenched his arm firmly to stop him from leaving.  
"Let go of me," England said in a low growl as their bodies touched. Clenching his fist tightly, he tried to yank himself away from him to no avail. Instead, he realized to be entangled in a treacherous, as well as seriously unfavourable position. His thoughts were directed to the analysis of the room he was in, scanning his surroundings, of the possibilities to escape. But he was not so naïve as not to understand that he could not manage to get away, not in the presence of Scotland himself. His best weapon in such a situation was patience: taking control of his breathing he forced himself to stop fidgeting, waiting.

"Nay."

"If you don't let go of me now, you'll be sorry, Scotland." England's voice was soft yet threatening, his chest was thrust out, but his lithe frame was no match for the physical strength of Scotland, who in turn, raised a single red eyebrow, evidently amused, and smirked at his brother's obvious defiance. 

"I’m afraid that attitude of yours isn’t going to get you anywhere, lad."

Scotland’s blatant statement engendered a shade of momentary dismay in England’s eyes. True to his word, Scotland was able to exploit that precious instant to add pressure on his sturdy grip, taking also advantage of the proximity of England’s huge bed in order to throw his brother onto it, pinning him roughly as to prevent his getaway.

As soon as England felt his own body sink swiftly onto the mattress, he attempted desperately to imitate a feeling of wrath, one strong enough for him to crush the Scot but all he felt thereupon was outrage, old resentment, and perhaps a slight sliver of fear creeping across his skin. He tried to reach up for Scotland's own neck, tried to get a grip and squeeze as hard as he could, but his palms got caught before they managed to even move and ended pinned above his head. He opened his mouth to yell and scream and shout at him, unleash torrents upon torrents of torrid rage to cascade over his body and wash away the uneasiness.

Scotland’s other hand trailed up and over to grasp England’s shoulder, pulling him around to lie on his back. The rapidity of the action made England open his eyes just in a tiny crack. Through his blond eyelashes, he saw the redhead climbing slowly on top of him, straddling him with his legs. England strove hard against Scotland in order to free himself, succeeding in releasing a mere arm. He reached out, his hand cutting air, and grasped Scotland’s wrist. “Scotland," England breathed out, his eyes intense and wary as they watched the mossy green orbs sporadically glint and dim. His lips felt dry and chapped so he ran his tongue over them and continued, uttering in a dark, dull tone meant to obstruct his rival’s intentions. "What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?"

“What do _ye_ think?” The Scotsman lunged at his captive and easily repossessed both of his wrists, thus submitting the pirate completely underneath him.

“I like that you are not already crying. Your dignified and proud attitude…” Scotland grabbed his face and made the blond look him in the eye. England twisted his head, determined not to turn, not to give him that satisfaction, but Scotland had other plans: he grabbed his hair and slightly lifted him, forcing him to turn around and gaze at him. England's eyes widened. 

“Let's see how much it will take me to drain every drop of pride you have in your body.”

There it was – stretching of skin over muscle as the older man’s arms moved, working to free the younger of his shirt. The tattered, elegant fabric fell away, exposing England’s lightly scarred skin. The sight of it fuelled Scotland, the lines, most made by him during their bitter history, marking his territory. He was not surprised to see England's lack of body-built muscle though, just from his life as conqueror and pirate. And every time he had owned him underneath him at his mercy like this, even now, devoid of any luxurious ornament and waiting, Scotland had always thought that England never looked more _human_.

“Can you see now how your so-called _power_ counts for absolutely nothing?” His lips curled back into a snarl as he caressed the milky skin.

“Devil take you!" England yelled up at him, his eyes glazed with anger. He sensed a single hand travel down to his hips and yank at the waist of his trousers, not even bothering to unfasten it, as he not only felt the rip of fabric, but also the cool breeze against his thighs. And never once did the redhead break eye contact, instead drinking all the marvellous reactions. Perched in this position, he had no trouble witnessing the way his brother’s pupils would dilate with fear, the way his breath would hitch and his fists clench, reacting with fury whenever either his reputation or his honour was impugned. It was always delicious, having his auld enemy on his hands, making him drunk from the intoxicating fumes of power.

The Scot’s left hand pulled the rest of cloth away from the blond's chest, leaving the expansion of pale skin completely bare and unprotected as he bit down into the pale flesh of his shoulder. England leaned back and grimaced, but before he could contemplate it further, his teeth were removed and his left hand had moved on his pelvis. The mahogany trousers were quickly pulled down completely, leaving him absolutely bare against the humid air. Scotland’s fingers clasped around his waist, thumbs rubbing against his skin, toying with him. The other’s skin shivered imperceptibly as he felt those fingertips trail lightly down his bare back, as the contact became rougher, the nation’s touch moving down, lowering down his legs. 

England’s figure went rigid and his forearm muscles defined nervously, but he refused to display further fear. The imperial nation breathed deeply in a rush of feverish anticipation, and he prepared to impassively endure the familiar pain. He narrowed his eyes, challenging the Scot, "Do your worst.”

Scotland leered maliciously at him when a rude hand went directly to envelop his brother’s flaccid member. On the spur of the moment, England’s eyes snapped wide open and stared at his brother’s abnormal doing. “W-what…” he emitted a weak gasp, terribly taken aback, confusion taking over and what could be glimpsed as alarm shadowed his face.

Scotland did not say anything, he just grinned and guided his hand to stroke languidly up and down, gaining a sharp exhale from between England’s gritted teeth, who flinched from the touch in discomfort. Looking down unconsciously, all he could see was the dark red hair and felt himself getting touched over and over. And even worse, his own body was against him. He was beginning to harden involuntarily in response as his fingers clasped his cock. 

“Do ye touch him like this?” he said mockingly, continuing to stroke him.

England started to kick fiercely against Scotland in protest, right when the touches became more vigorous, his brother’s fingers swept up and down, forcing England’s cock to harden further. Scotland decided to free just one of England’s wrist, longing to unveil the younger’s possible reactions. Unexpectedly, England didn’t make use of his hand to fight him, choosing instead to stuff his knuckles into his mouth so as to muffle his sounds. He hated the sounds he made, the sounds he couldn’t stop. He wasn’t enjoying the feeling. He hated it. But his body. His body had its own reactions. Acted of its own accord.

Scotland’s lips moved back to his neck, tongue and teeth ravishing his smooth skin. Fingers curled around his wrist and removed his fist from his mouth, setting his voice free. England wondered why this time Scotland was making it so drawn out, wishing instead he got it over quicker.

The grasp on his erection loosened and finally disappeared, long fingers running down the inside of his legs as his thighs were spread. He hesitantly gazed into Scotland’s eyes and found they were focused on his face. Blank, soulless pupils void of light eyed him hungrily, reminding him of those silent sea-monsters, the circling sharks he sometimes saw from the carved parapet of the quarterdeck. When England was a younger, much less-experienced country, Scotland sometimes derived pleasure from keeping eye contact, and it made the boy die inside, averse as he was to see the eyes of the one who was violating him, particularly as they held no remorse, no regret. But this time, England was adamant to keep Scotland’s gaze, to show that he was not afraid. 

Scotland pulled England's legs apart and moved forward to keep them separated, his chest hovering just above his waist. He then used one hand to raise England's hips while the other one was busy guiding his hardened member to his entrance. England could feel the body heat radiating from the one above him and a fog of apprehension settled in his body, tensing his muscles and constricting his throat. Scotland took a moment to breathe in, the room smelling of leather-bound books, alcohol and tobacco smoke, before lining himself up with England's entrance, whose pupils contracted as he felt the touch on his backside.

With a low breath, Scotland pressed his hips forward slightly, a little at a time, until the large head of his cock forced its way inside of England, who flinched as it was dryly pushed inside, his legs trembling at the intrusion. However, he did not aim any snide comments in Scotland direction and he did not react aggressively to the violation. 

Scotland's strong hands held tightly onto England’s legs as he pushed forward bit by bit, working his thick member deeper and deeper into the other. Scotland could feel nothing but the heat and tightness clenching around him as he pushed his hips forward with more force until he was settled as far as the body below him could currently accommodate. He tipped his head back as he pulled out and brutally snapped his hips forward once more, repeating the movement until the blond had forcibly taken his entire length. England gritted his teeth in pain but stoically refused to scream, instead digging his fingers into the mattress until his fists turned white from the strain.

"Tell me, brother, how often do you do this with Spain?" The words were cold, simple, meant to tease and provoke. They sent a spark of ice running down England's back.

Scotland watched him for a while. He watched the way his brother writhed on the bed, eyes clenched tight with pain, his limbs flailing about the place, sometimes pushing at his chest and sometimes clutching at his own. The stifled tears refused to cut down his face leaving a glistening shimmer in his eyes that had humiliation scratching at the surface.

England's limbs trembled below Scotland, and he was expelling pained hisses at the exertion, his muffled screams only increasing in volume the harder and deeper Scotland thrust into him. England’s struggle had reached its peak, and thus he used what strength he had left to try to pry the redhead away from him, only to be left in turmoil when the arm didn't do so much as budged. He savagely attempted once again, but the way some sticky fluid trickled down his inner thigh made him shrink back to some extent. His rushed breaths were not enough to disguise the squelching sound of Scotland's hard erection plunging into him, the friction only slightly lessened with the amount of trailing blood; not only the unbearable pressure that had pain shooting and tickling every nerve, radiating throughout the rest of his body, but the agony of stinging betrayal the action always came with.

A cry of pain refused to leave England's throat, his eyes blown wide and glassy as spikes of pain shoot down his spine when he felt the erection spear through his body, before the older started his brutal pace, completely sheathing himself, pulling out and repeating.  
“Even now, I am aware, you are clinging to your pride under the impression that it is your distinctive virtue that I can’t strip you of, like I always do.” Scotland stated with vehemence, observing attentively the way his younger brother set his teeth and breathed hard through his nose, trying to keep silent as long as possible.

Instinctively, the pirate’s eyelids closed as he tried to regain control, seeking to claim back his composure. He jerked his limbs and tried to dislodge the redhead from his body in any way he could, despite the way he was pinned down. Scotland's arm crept further across his neck, putting him into some kind of headlock where the crook of his elbow trapped England's ashen neck, where visible veins throbbed, squeezing and choking him until he was spluttering, panting hard.

Scotland's member pulsed inside of him, hot and wide and deep to an extremity that made his skin crawl. The pain was beginning to go beyond England’s line of passive resistance, so he brought his right arm to his face, and crammed his closed fist into his mouth, biting hard until his flesh broke and he tasted blood. His gaze wandered around the room, seeking out whatever thinkable diversion, anything that could have distracted him from what was happening. 

From the greater side of his mind, he went back in time when he was on his ship, looking in from the outside, allowing his thoughts to meander, and eagerly hearing the sound of sails rustling and flapping, mast creaking, bare feet thumping loudly against the deck, the caw of seagulls, salty spray hitting wood, and the grunts, groans emitted from Spain during those times in his cabin.

But, in between truth and deceitful mind, England opened his eyes and, with horror, caught sight of a brown-haired man above him. A particularly vicious thrust made his body jump and tore down the wall that stuck him, forcing him to see the familiar auburn red hair. And watching as the two worlds collided, the new Empire’s sight became indistinct, brown blurring with red. He was trying to find purchase, security, something to keep him stable and yet there was nothing. So his hand left his mouth and they both gripped his hair as he began to pull at it and ground himself before his sanity had a chance to drift away, body uncontrollably convulsing in this haze of pain.

Scotland sharply slapped his hips against his own and pounded into that tight heat. Both hands were now gripping England's ankles and proceeded to pull them as far and down to his chest as possible, so that he could penetrate deeper. He leaned his body forward to rest his torso on his brother's as he pushed into with new deeper depths, his length only hardening at the lewd squishing sounds that mingled with England's muffled cries.

In that new position, England was able to feel every agonising inch of Scotland's member slide out of him and ram back in. He felt the unbearable heat of his body and the damp stickiness of his sweat, and it was too much. He grabbed a lock of his hair and pulled hard at it, trying desperately to feel the pain moving to another area, fingers bunching up the sheets.

Scotland shoved himself violently into him, grabbed his pelvis and pulled him towards him. England gritted his teeth and sobbed, finally emitting an undesired scream. In response, the Scot snapped his hips brutally hard, cutting the scream off into a shriek. 

"Where is your pride now, mighty British empire? What happened to your strength?”  
Would the others ever guess, that in front of someone England could cease to act so arrogantly? The Great British Empire that bowed before a subject who was but a mere, small nation.

England let himself be used as he pleased, without moving or protesting anymore, certain that, if he had done so, Scotland would get fed up quickly. However, the ancient nation was determined to bring him to the brink of madness, and even when his thrusts became more regular, England’s body did not stop accusing each stroke with a shock of pain along the spine. Scotland was keeping him subjugated; he grabbed his face and stuck his tongue between his lips, stifling his moans. England bit it as hard as he could manage, earning an amused laughter from the other.  
He _hated_ him. He hated every second that passed with those painful thrusts inside him, surrounded by the sour smell of sweat, pinned by those hands. It was a relief to feel Scotland pound deeper, faster, meaning that it was going to end.

All of a sudden, his face turned pallid, he blinked rapidly, staring at a point in front of him but not seeing, as images of brown hair and piercing green eyes flashed through his feeble mind. That colour of fallen leaves browned and sleek with the first rain of autumn kept haunting England, torturing him all the while, until vibrant rays of truth, eclipsed by the haze, brought reality to light, revealing the crimson tone characteristic of Scotland’s locks.

England was sobbing soundlessly, twisting and thrashing; he didn’t want the tears to fall, he needed his mind to stay strong until it was over. But his aching, faint yelp got lost, and he felt his weakened grip on reality slipping further and further away from him as the Scot jerked his hips particularly fast, ramming into his brother and finally earning more and more, free whimpers, nails scratching down Scotland’s back. All England could do was lay on his back with his legs spread and endure the pain, listening to the squelchy sounds of flesh against flesh, inhaling the stench of sex that hung like fog in the room. 

The blond drew back with a harsh wince as Scotland’s hand reached down his ignored length, the hand was then rubbed along England’s member, making it throb and harden again, after having stood forgotten the whole time. The redhead stimulated it with his fingers along with his thrusts, in rhythm, arousing a burst of pleasure alternating with pain in the younger.

 _No_ -!" England managed to splutter out, a new kind of panic echoing in his mind, but his voice was hoarse and Scotland paid no mind at him, continuing to incite and touch his erection faster, with a pleased sneer on the lips. A sense of dizziness and nausea encumbered on him, as he heard himself moaning with pleasure; an unwilling stream of tears poured now shamefully down his cheeks before dripping off of his chin and onto the back of his hands. He could feel sickness churn in his stomach like the waves on the raging seas he sailed.

After a few more strokes, England released, crying, coming in the other’s hand, and his mind sank, perceiving a feeling of self-loathing and deadly hopelessness. He had devoured his mind and body bit by bit.  
Scotland felt heat pool in the pit of his stomach and thrust rougher, with abandon. He buried himself as deep as he could, stilling and finally coming with a grunt.

He stayed inside England even after he was done, hazy in the aftermath, not moving from his body until England started to scream. It started out as a whimper, breaking into a cascade of sobs and hyperventilating until the scream had ripped from his throat. The sound was disturbing, it was the sound of agony, both physical and emotional, escaping through those white lips, anger, humiliation, confusion, all shining through in that hoarse battle cry.

England was uncontrollable, he was shaking and shouting murder, breath coming out in rushed, uneven heaves, like he wanted to get the oxygen out of his lungs rather than in. There were no lucid thoughts running through his mind, just pure, unadulterated emotion echoing back at him as his damaged body writhed on the bed.

In that precise moment, the mighty Empire wished he was dead. He felt close to it; close enough to feel and crave it but distanced enough to have it just beyond his reach.


End file.
